Purple Squall
by PinkWhirlWind
Summary: very AU... FF8, Gravi, WK, WK, Seifer is the key to slaying a demon.. and everyone's looking for him
1. Default Chapter

Purple Squall  
  
By Nix Winter  
  
Disclaimers: I don't own Squall, Seifer, or Balamb, but I do own the world I'm trying to build here.  
  
Warnings: Highly AU! It is yaoi though  
  
Notes: Feedback is highly appreciated.  
  
Chief Seattle is said to have said, "Yonder sky that has wept tears of compassion upon my people for centuries untold, and which to us appears changeless and eternal, may change." It was his guiding spirit that saw Seattle and the people of Seattle through the war of Yelendil, the return of elves and magic-kin to the modern world. Once Seattle had been part of the mainland, part of the USA. There had been Mercer Island and Puget Sound. And the young that Chief Seattle had spoken of, though young of a hibernating race, had woken and painted their faces black. The elves had woken from a thousand year sleep to find the world changed, humans arrogant and powerful and blackhawk helicopters had fought against elvish mages. There was no more Puget Sound.  
  
The Seattle Democratic Republic claimed land from Skykomish to Tacoma, water rights from the shoreline at Snoqualmie to just past here the Idaho border once was. The melting of the polar icecaps would have changed the map of the world if it had been left alone. A cornered trio of elvish fighters had set off a solar spell and greatly accelerated the process. San Francisco, L.A., Rome, all of Panama, cities around the world found themselves with way too much water. That was the catalyst for the end of the war. Elves drown just as well as humans, but together they were able to save some of the cities, many of the people. Seattle, which had been leaning towards tolerance way before the world got a bath, was better off than most. At least elves and humans hadn't been trying to kill each other.  
  
As the fighting died back, with no official truce declared, Seattle became Sanctuary for every kind of person. Elf, human, dragon, mer, were, assassin, or whatever undiscovered species, they all trickled into Seattle. Sign the respect for sentience pledge, swear non intent to harm, and you were in. If you were found in violation of either vow, and you were out, chipped so you could never come back in. Outside was not a good place to be. Seattle was the land of democracy and opportunity, all a person had to do was be tolerant and smart.  
  
Not that the little republic didn't have her problems too. Harm was harder to define than one would think, especially if one had good lawyers. Seattle had a long tradition of being home to corporate kings, brilliant and ruthless minds. The occasional corporate war fairly unavoidable. Getting caught in the middle wasn't all that big of a surprise either.  
  
Wars, the big world wide kind, and the little corporate kind, made orphans. Academies raised orphans, raised them for their corporate sponsor. Raised in Balamb Academy, Squall Leonhart was a syad for Balamb Corporation, a soldier, a protector of Balamb assets. He was the best they had. Leaning against the wall on his balcony, watching the afternoon storm dance across the ocean, he didn't care if he were the best. Mostly, he didn't think he cared about anything. The rain shifted and pattered across his face, plastering fine purple hair to his face, twisting it around a delicate pointed ear. The rain was good for many things. Hiding tears being high on the list.  
  
The scar on his face was healed, magically healed a hundred times over, though if it had healed naturally it might still be tender, pink. He ran his middle finger over it, tracing the line that started above an eyebrow and traced down to just under the opposite eye. The calloused finger tip felt cool, comforting somehow. It ought to hurt, this scar. It ought to echo and scream at him. The sage told him there was a message from his soul in the scar, and that he would find no peace until he understood the message of his soul. The sage might as well have told him to take up dancing or water walking for all the good listening to his soul would do him. Squall knew he didn't have a soul. He was syad. That was all.  
  
He turned away from the storm and raked wet hair back from his face as he walked back into his room. He'd been given a commander's room in Balamb Tower, after the Witch War. He'd done it. He'd lead his team against the incursions of the Ultimica Corporation. It was corporate self-defense. They'd had all the permits, all the disclaimers were signed. No Seattlian laws were broken, even though nearly five hundred syads died. Syads signed disclaimers and they got hazard pay.  
  
With the afternoon storm still falling outside his balcony, Squall peeled his wet tee-shirt off and hung it on a hook by the glass doors. "Training," he spoke the command and the holographic presentation of his room shifted. "Seifer, interactive."  
  
The room didn't even flicker as Seifer Almasy materialized in the room, gunblade on his shoulder, cocky grin on his face, green eyes watching Squall as if he were a living breathing person still. "You just never get enough, do you Squally?"  
  
The flash of anger Squall felt at those words were the first feeling he'd acknowledged all day. The holographic face smiling back at him wore a mirror image scar between his eyes and even just a holographic recreation, he understood Squall better than any living person. "You're such an asshole. Eat dinner with me?"  
  
Seifer-hologram rolled his eyes, head tilting back, finger tips touching his chest, right over the black cross on his chest. "I don't need to eat Squally, but I'll watch you, if that's what it takes to get enough nourishment into your weakling organic system so we can have a go at it later."  
  
"Is fighting all you think about?" Squall asked, passing his hand over a sensor so the kitchen utilities would show. Simple foods, a protein burger and vanilla flavored nutri-shake, that was all he had and he didn't miss any thing more complicated.  
  
"At least I'm not a numb nut talking to a hologram. You can only expand my programming so far, Squally. Why don't you go find the real me, if that's what you want so fucking badly?"  
  
Squall dropped his drink, splattering vanilla everywhere. Find Seifer? Seifer was dead. He'd killed Seifer. Seifer was dead. Seifer never came back out of the time compression. Seifer. Squall closed his eyes and he could see so easily those green eyes, the look of shock and horror on them as Squall had struck the final blow in their last battle. Seifer hadn't meant the things he'd done. Squall didn't know how he knew that, but he did. He grasped a handful of hair and leaned forward to touch the cabinet with his forehead. "How am I supposed to find the dead?"  
  
Seifer-hologram started moving through a gunblade kata, moving with effortless grace, perfect as it was each time. "What makes you so sure I'm dead?"  
  
S 


	2. the water in Japan

Purple Squall 2/2  
  
By Nix Winter  
  
Disclaimers: I don't own any of the fandoms I'm writing in. I do own the story  
  
Notes. this is likely to become a huge crossover. fandoms I know are going to be in it. Final Fantasy 8, Gundam Wing, Gravitation, Weiss Kruez, Tokala. I guess I'm trying to experiment with the form of a story. Needless to say, it's very AU  
  
Purple Squall  
  
Tokyo also survived the rise of the ocean. They weren't on good terms with the elves. No one could really explain exactly why the water didn't rise around Japan. No one would believe the reason, even if the new king of Tokyo came right out and explained it. On the top floor of Nittle Grasper Records, Seguchi Touma was happy without anyone knowing why the water, why the whole period of hostilities had just passed Japan right over. It wasn't because the elves couldn't live without their playstations either.  
  
The world was a very odd place, he thought, watching out his window, watching all the lives and lights of night time Tokyo flicker by. So beautiful, and so completely his. He flexed his fingers behind his back, so reveling in the evening and in what he had planned for the rest of it, that he didn't even mind if his horns showed a little. This was his kingdom, after all. It was funny how people would date elves, watch talk shows that interviewed dragons, and not bother to believe in Hell. People were fools, but Touma did so love them, love owning them.  
  
His intercom beeped and he turned to answer, one neatly manicured finger touching the button. "Yes."  
  
"Shindou-san is here," his secretary said.  
  
"Send him in." Touma's heart beat faster. He'd been waiting for this for ten years, since Eiri had turned from him in the graveyard. Touma turned back to the window, gave a moment to his reflection. Modesty was not one of Hell's cherished virtues. Blond hair curved and clung to his cheeks, blue eyes, clear as a spring sky, Touma didn't look forty-three. He hardly looked twenty. Petite, graceful, with the fingers of a keyboardist, he was easily the most beautiful creature in Tokyo, in all of Japan, if that had been what he'd wanted. It wasn't. He was happy just being above average, the keyboardist of the best selling band in Japan. The only thing that Touma had ever wanted and not been able to have was the very thing that Shuichi had. The love of one Usugi Eiri.  
  
"Touma-san," Shuichi asked respectfully, shutting the door quietly behind him. They were as good as family. After that horrid tour to California and the crisis with that nasty vampire ghost, Eiri and Shuichi had been as good as married. It was then that Touma realized the depth and purity of Eiri's love for this pink haired fool, realized what the cost to Eiri would be if Touma forced the writer to love him. But time does carry on. Touma wouldn't pay that price to have Eiri's love for himself, but he'd pay it to save Eiri's life. Shuichi was perennially innocent, the endless virgin of the heart, so pure and adorable, and all of that showed in his voice, "Today wasn't a good day to come. Eiri's not feeling well."  
  
That was an understatement. Eiri had lung cancer. There were treatments, of course. Chemotherapy, organ replacement, these were drawn out, painful, and worst, chancy. There were other treatments, magic treatment, but Touma's family did not resort to Elvish magic. Without turning, still watching his reflection in his window, watching the dark sparks in his own eyes. "Would you give anything to heal Eiri?"  
  
Shuichi stopped half way between the desk and the door. He was taller than when he'd first met Touma, more muscular, but there were little lines next to Shuichi's eyes, the faintest silver sometimes showing if he didn't get the pink in fast enough. The silver had been coming in since his trip to California. It was only sexy when Eiri was running his fingers through it, telling him he was the most beautiful man.  
  
Shuichi knew there was something unnatural about Touma, had known since he started to get those silver hairs. What had started in the ruins of Immortality.com's building, had never really left Shuichi. He felt the pull every now and then, and felt a vague nagging guilt over it, that there was something he should be doing, but he didn't know what it was.  
  
Being the lead singer for Bad Luck, the second best band in Japan, in all of Asia, was usually big enough for Shuichi. He wasn't as good looking as he was when he was younger. His voice wasn't as strong, but he and Eiri had dinner with Hiro and Aiyaka every other Wednesday and he got to babysit from time to time. He liked his life, liked sitting with Eiri as he wrote. He didn't know what he'd do if Eiri died. Life was supposed to be longer. "What did you have in mind?"  
  
Touma smiled, the kind of smile that Shuichi had learned to fear decades ago. "There is a price for everything and everything can be had for a price."  
  
The hair stood up on the back of Shuichi's neck and he found himself panting, so quietly though, as if he didn't want Touma to know. Deep within him, something was waking, uncurling itself like a cat made of instinct and frost. "Touma, what's going on?"  
  
Touma turned, the very elegant platinum horns tingling under his hat. "The time has come for me to ask a favor of you, Shindou-san."  
  
"A favor," Shuichi asked, eyes narrowing, trying to fight off the feeling that he'd sold his soul somewhere and just didn't remember signing. "This is going to help Eiri?"  
  
"Oh, yes, very much so," Touma, for just a moment, as he sat down in his chair, was the Touma Shuichi knew first, just a musician turned business man. Talking about Eiri had that effect on the president of Nittle Grasper Record, Shuichi thought. "If you succeed, Eiri will be safe forever. He'll never get sick again. Nothing will ever hurt him. He'll be writing his stories and smoking cigarettes forever."  
  
"Forever?" Shuichi said, wondering how many paces to the door. They'd known for weeks now, Eiri and he. He'd cried. So had Eiri. Eiri was dying. He'd stopped the chemo and he was gaining some strength back. Shuichi had his hopes, but he knew. Tears weren't welcome and they stung as he tried to not let them form. His eyes twitched and his gut rolled around like three day old coffee. "No one lives forever. No one lives forever Touma and I wouldn't make Eiri suffer for how long he has left."  
  
"Is that so," Touma hissed.  
  
Beyond his window, lights in Tokyo winked out, giving Shuichi the feeling that only he and Touma existed. "The chemo, it was making him sick, Touma. He was throwing up all the time and he couldn't write. He's getting stronger now. I just want him to be happy, Touma. You can understand that, yeah?"  
  
"It will be hard to be happy if he's dead, idiot." Touma snarled and Shuichi was quite sure that there was smoke, two little swirling tendrils of it, rising up from Touma's hat. "You have debts to pay, Shindou, debts to me, debts to my master."  
  
"Debts?" Shuichi squeaked. Grown men did not squeak, but neither were Touma's eyes supposed to be a solid black. "Touma, what have you done?"  
  
That brought a laugh, elegant and very Nittle Grasper. "The last person who saw my true face nearly had a heart attack. Shindou, you surprise me."  
  
Angry now, Shuichi crossed to Touma's desk. Hands on his side of it, he leaned forward and looked right into those mirror black demon eyes. "What have you done?"  
  
"I sold my soul, decades ago, before you were even born, Shu-chan." Touma purred, taking his hat off which gave a puff of acrid smoke to the room. He fanned the dark cloud away from his pretty blond hair, then set the hat on his desk. "Ryuichi cut a deal with one god or another, long before I meet him, though, I'll tell you, if I could have got my hands on his grandfather, our lives would all be different. Ryuichi was my best friend, and he makes devine music. I had to be good enough to play with him."  
  
"Noriko?"  
  
"No, she's just good. With three divinely gifted musicians in a group, we probably would have killed ourselves."  
  
"You sold your soul so you could play music?" Shuichi looked shocked, genuinely shocked.  
  
"Oh don't tell me you wouldn't have done the same! I can just see you as a manager of a department store somewhere, thirty pounds heavier and singing karaoke on the weekends. Yeah, and married to some woman you knocked up. You would have sold your soul too, but that wasn't why. It was what happened in New York, that's what really cinched the deal. How in hell do you think I covered up the murders Eiri committed?"  
  
Shuichi sat down, both hands on his face, as if he could hold his head from spinning around with all the thoughts. "I just thought you were good at that kind of thing."  
  
"Well, I am good at that kind of thing. Very good, in fact. You should ask me about the rising water some time."  
  
"Rising water? Oh Seguchi-san! I don't want to know! What do you need a favor from me for?" A dozen not so lovely images were slideshowing through Shuichi's mind. What would it take to not only cure Eiri, but make him nearly immortal? For one sparklingly ugly moment he saw himself tied to a stone altar. "You don't do human sacrifice, do you?"  
  
"I thought you didn't want to know. Besides, we should get down to business."  
  
Shuichi's mouth was too dry to swallow. "Business. Okay, how do we cure Eiri?"  
  
"Do you remember when you went to California?"  
  
"When I was in a coma? I had awful dreams."  
  
A tiny flame sparked into life at the top of one of Touma's horns. "Those weren't dreams."  
  
"But I was a vampire! I bit Eiri!"  
  
"Yes, you did. And because he loved you so completely the curse on the guardian of blood was broken. Then I, with a very small assistance from an associate or two, urged your vampiric nature into slumber. Don't faint. Breath. You're hyperventilating."  
  
"No? Go figure!"  
  
"You are an extremely rare commodity. You've slept only with Eiri, remained pure of heart, completely loyal. You're a good friend, honest, and genuine. You're an innocent vampire. You're an ideal demon slayer."  
  
"Oh no! Seguchi-san! I'm just an old pop star, a singer? I cook badly, I play video games too loud and I've been dying my hair pink for fifteen years! Look, see my roots? They're silver! I'm just an old man! I don't know how to slay demons."  
  
It was impossible to see red flowing over such deeply black eyes as Touma's, but Shuichi thought he saw just that. Liquid fire, the fire of hell flowing in Touma's veins. "That will only assist you. The demon in question is growing powerful and does not respect the rules of his kin. He is eating demons. Soon he will be the most powerful creature in any of the worlds. You are going to go slay him before that happens, and in return, the council of Hell will erase Eiri's name from the Book of Death. He will become immortal."  
  
"You don't know Eiri at all," Shuichi said through the fingers over his mouth.  
  
"He wouldn't be alone, Shuichi. He'll have you. Vampires are immortal as well."  
  
"I'm not a vampire!"  
  
"Yes," Touma said, smiling, his eyes going normal once more as he snapped his fingers. "You are."  
  
That instinct that had coiled in his gut earlier now uncurled. No longer ice, it was a ravenous fire. Tooth ache set in shortly after and he groaned, leaning forward to spit bile on Touma's immaculate floor.  
  
"Was that necessary? Here, look at this photo," Touma shoved a photo across the table and Shuichi took it, obeying out of shock and fear. "That is Seifer Almasy. He is your link to the demon. Find him. You find our target. Do the job and be home in a couple days. I'll keep Eiri company while you're gone. Oh, and your flight leaves in an hour. Enjoy Seattle."  
  
"You're a fucking bastard!"  
  
"No, dear one," Touma purred, pure malice, as he petted Shuichi's hair, stripping away a wide steak of color, "I'm a prince of Hell, and I happen to like you right now."  
  
"Fucking bastard! Keep your hands off Eiri! He's sick!"  
  
"Then you'd better hurry, before he forgets you were born."  
  
The photo crumbled in Shuichi's fist. "Fucking bastard!"  
  
Touma was gone though. 


	3. Eiri's Price

Purple Squall 3/?  
  
By Nix Winter  
  
Disclaimers: I don't own Gravitation, ff8, WK, or biblical characters. The story is mine  
  
Eiri spilled coffee on the counter. Teeth clenched, he used both hands to put the caraf back in the coffee maker. He had half a cup of coffee in his cup. Hands shaking, he got the cup to the tray attached to the arm of his wheel chair. Leaning his head back against his headrest, he licked dry lips and adjusted the oxygen tubing under his nose. "Desk," he wheezed into the tiny microphone by his mouth.  
  
The chair glided forward, not so much causing a ripple across his coffee. Shuichi should have been back, or he should have phoned. A music video of Shuichi at the most recent New Year's celebration concert played in their living room, in all of his solid looking holographic glory. "Interactive," Eiri whispered and the concert replay ended.  
  
Shuichi-h spun around, impossibly pink hair fanning out, then smacking into his face. "Eiri! You're still supposed to be resting! Is that coffee?"  
  
"Yes, not supposed to drink caffeine. Get black leather notebook, bottom drawer, my dresser. Brring me a blanket. Located Shuichi, locate Touma. Initiate."  
  
Unlike the real Shuichi, Shuichi-h did exactly as he was told. Because he was programmed over the top of recorded algorithms from the real Shuichi, he tucked the fleece blanket in around Eiri's legs tenderly. "You did not take your scheduled dose of painkiller. I will get that for you now, confirm?"  
  
"You are too much like my brat. His location?"  
  
"Shuichi is in Tokyo airport. There is a one way flight scheduled to Democratic-Republic of Seattle."  
  
"Health status?" Eiri asked as he struggled to open his notebook. Shuichi-h steadied the book so Eiri's too slender fingers could turn through the yellowing pages.  
  
"Unable to confirm Shuichi's health status. Touma is enroute to this location. He has left you a voice message, play now, confirm?"  
  
"Hold his message. Set the apartment entrance to 'away', high security. Dial this number." Eiri reached for his coffee with both hands. The number in question had been written years ago.  
  
"Connecting." The very tips of Shuichi-h's hair sparkled. The change was subtle, as the connection established. Shuichi-h took the form of the person the call reached to. A tall man, slender and pale, green eyes, sunglasses lazing on his nose, a cigarette in one hand, Youji Kudou smirked. "I knew you'd call Uesugi. About time."  
  
It had a decade, give or take. Youji had not aged one moment since they'd first met. Not for the first time, Eiri thought he could see the faint image of angel wings behind the blond's shoulders. It had been a message years before when Shuichi had returned to him safe, after the terrorist attacks on the subway. "I need him back safely again."  
  
"You need more than that," Youji said, reverently. "Why did you wait so long?"  
  
Eiri wanted a cigarette. He wanted it almost as much as he wished Youji couldn't see how weak and desperate he was. "I did not call to debate my choices. I called to finalize an arrangement."  
  
"You had to cut it so close?"  
  
Eiri's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"  
  
"It's been so long since I was alive, I forgot the living don't know when they're going to die." Youji said, leaning forward, a look of compassion on his face. "Come on, Eiri, it's not so bad. You'll make one hell of an angel for the twilight."  
  
"Isn't that a contradiction? Hell of an angel?" Eiri said, fighting off the shortness of breath that was shrinking his lungs. "I want new terms."  
  
"Don't you think it's a little late for negotiations?" Youji leaned forward and being the magical creature that he was, stepped right through the data connection and into Eiri and Shuichi's living room. Shuichi-h flickered and fuzzed static, but Youji was really there, really kneeling in front of a gasping Uesugi Eiri. "I'll take you to him, Eiri. He'll listen. He'll give you what you want."  
  
The writer nodded, eyes half closed, mouth open and gasping for air. His fingers held the oxygen tubing to his nose, other fingers trying to turn it up.  
  
Youji reached up and stopped him, pulling the tube away. "It's too late for that. Don't worry."  
  
Eiri's fingers dropped from his face, knocking over his last half cup of coffee. "Shuichi. Where is Shuichi?"  
  
"You'll have to ask him that," Youji said, holding his cigarette between his lips, as he lifted Eiri's wasted body up in strong arms, arms and hands covered by thin twilight blue leather, blessed to hold back the wraith curse.  
  
Eiri's head fell back against powerful feathered wing, his chest aching as he tried to draw breath in lungs ruined by disease and misuse. "Shuichi, I want to buy him safe."  
  
"Yeah," Youji said, between lips holding his own cigarette. "Everyone's got their price, uh?"  
  
The twilight angel carried Eiri away from the wheel chair and the shattered mug, out of the living room and into the world beyond. Shuichi-h dropped to his knees and wept. He was just a computer program, but he was built on the emotions and personality that was Shindou Shuichi.  
  
There was no one to answer the phone when Shuichi called moments later, no one to let Touma in. Half way around the world, another blond man sat on a street corner, a sketch book on his lap, drawing images of angels from his mind, selling them for little more than the price of a coffee. He had a mirror image scar between his eyes, just like Squall's, but his eyes were kind, gentle.  
  
His fingers flew over the paper, moving the little stub of woodless pencil here, there, slashing almost. This drawing wasn't for sale. It was just for himself. Only sometimes could he get the paper to give him this image. Emerging from the paper was a man with wild hair and pointy ears, a delicate face, and a scar that matched his own. The blond didn't know who he drew. Of course, he didn't know his own name either, so it was all nicely balanced. 


End file.
